


This Is Right Where It Begins

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So basically, we’re at a stalemate here.” </p><p>The corners of his lips twitch at that, as if holding back on a smile. “I guess we are.” </p><p>A beat goes by. She swears he might even be enjoying this- just a little- both of them staring each other down and waiting to see who would break first. </p><p>“Fine,” Clarke relents, turning her back to him. “Just stay on your side.”</p><p>Or: Clarke is <i>not</i> pleased when someone starts stealing her table at her regular coffee joint. Especially when that someone is an asshole like Bellamy Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Right Where It Begins

 

Clarke’s been going to Dropship Coffee for two months when it happens. 

It’s incredibly immature. Petty, too. But she was here first, okay? She didn’t even think anyone else knew about its existence when there was a perfectly good Starbucks just two blocks away. Taking a deep breath, she spins on her heel, settling down by the bar before chancing another quick peek at the stranger sitting by the window.

At her table, to be exact.

It’s the best place to get her sketches done, considering it’s one of the few spots with natural light flooding in and conveniently located right by the radiator. The rest of the shop was too dark for her to get anything done, and her eyes blurred whenever she tried.

Steeling herself, she marches over to aforementioned stranger, clearing her throat as she goes. “Hi. Listen, uhm, I know this is going to--”

He barely spares her a glance, eyes darting back to the screen of his laptop. “Yeah, no.”

Clarke blinks, a baffled laugh slipping off her tongue. “Excuse me?”

“I’m using the power outlet.” He goes, curt, tapping his ankle against the cluster of wires impatiently. “You’re going to have to wait your turn, princess.”

“I-- That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

The look he shoots her is cold, downright  _ condescending _ . “So, you weren’t going to ask me if we could trade seats?”

“I was, but--” she stops short, reining in the growl of frustration caught in her throat. There was no point reasoning with him if he was going to be an asshole, anyway. She settles for a dirty look instead, making sure to bump her hip against the edge of his table before striding away. The muttered curse he emits almost makes her smile. Almost.

She orders a chai tea latte, getting comfortable so she can wait him out. The barista behind the counter shoots her an apologetic smile, adjusting the nametag perched crookedly against his apron. “Looks like you have some competition, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Clarke muses, taking a pointed sip of her coffee. “But I’m not too worried. When did he even get here?”

“Came by on Saturday.” He shrugs, the screech of the kettle nearly drowning out the warm, even timbre of his voice. “Parked himself at your table and has pretty much been here ever since.”

She nods, resting her chin against the palm of her hand. It made sense that she had never seen him before- her jaunts to Dropship Coffee was limited to weekdays and the occasional bank holiday. “Any idea when he’ll leave?”

“He’s always here even after I get off my shift.” The look he shoots her is sympathetic, and she decides that she likes him immediately. “If it’s any consolation, it’s nice and warm over here at the bar.”

“It is,” she tells him, catching a quick glimpse of his nametag before he turns to put the milk away. “Thanks for your help, Monty.”

“Anytime.” He chirps before ducking into the kitchen, leaving her to stew in her own thoughts. Sketching is out of the question but she has a few books loaded up in her iPad, so Clarke decides to read instead, one foot poised against the ground so she can make a break for it if he so much as gets up.

But he doesn’t. Not even after the sun has gone down, or when Monty’s replaced by a sullen looking boy in a beanie. She’s almost tempted to stick it out, but hunger gets the best of her in the end so she heads back to her dorm to sulk some more. Clarke’s not optimistic enough to hope that he won’t be back the next day, but she’s definitely counting on being earlier than him at  _ least _ .

No such luck. He’s already there when she gets in the next morning, laptop booted on and charger plugged into the power outlet. Huffing, she grabs her usual order before flopping down at the table behind his. It’s not much, but at least there’s a sliver of light shining in from the windows at this angle. Unearthing her sketchbook from the recesses of her bag, she flips to a clean page and gets to work.

She’s halfway through her second sketch when something slams up against her back, sending her hand skidding over the page. Yelping, she pulls away to find charcoal smudges all the way down to her wrist.

“What the  _ hell _ ?”

He flushes under her scrutiny, but inclines his head back to glower at her anyway. “I didn’t-- it was an accident, okay? You’re the one who clearly doesn’t get the concept of personal space.”

“Me?” She gapes, wincing at the creak of her neck when she turns to face him head-on instead. “I literally shoved myself into this tiny space just so I could be somewhere close to a window, because a  _ jackass _ \--”

“The window?” He interrupts, brow furrowing. “You said you needed the power outlet.”

“More like you assumed,” Clarke says, tart. “You didn’t exactly give me a chance to explain myself, remember?”

He looks a little sheepish at that. “Right, well. It was a natural assumption.”

“I’m sure it was,” she snorts. “I’m not trying to be difficult or anything, but it’s impossible to get any of my sketches done in near-darkness. So it’s either this,” she gestures to the chairs jammed up against one another, “or you, very kindly, giving up the seat. Your call.”

“You’re forgetting that the whole reason I’m sitting here is for the power outlet.” He gives an exasperated sigh, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “Trust me, I would gladly move if I could.” 

“So basically, we’re at a stalemate here.”

The corners of his lips twitch at that, as if holding back on a smile. “I guess we are.”

A beat goes by. She swears he might even be enjoying this- just a little- both of them staring each other down and waiting to see who would break first.

“Fine,” Clarke relents, turning her back to him. “Just stay on your side.”

“More than happy to.” He calls out. She’s pretty sure he might have said something else too, but she drowns him out by shoving her headphones on obstinately and cranking up the volume. Still, the music isn’t loud enough to mask the screech of the chair as he moves it forward ever so slightly, giving her more wiggle room.

It’s not ideal, she thinks, biting at her lip to keep from smiling. But at least it’s something.

+

It’s a little difficult  _ not  _ to notice someone when he’s the only other person in the room, but Clarke’s really making a concentrated effort here. 

They don’t talk beyond the occasional snipe directed at one another, a muttered  _ your shoulders are bony, stop shoving me  _ on his part and a  _ your enormous head is blocking the light  _ from hers. Sometimes they mix things up, and he’ll insist that the heel of her shoe is digging against the back of his ankle while she gripes about his loud chewing.

Clarke’s picked more fights with this stranger than with anyone else in a  _ year,  _ and she doesn’t even know his name.

She knows, vaguely, that it probably starts with a B, considering that’s the only letter she can make out from his venti cups. The rest of the words are a jumbled, illegible scrawl, courtesy of Miller, the barista with the beanie who still refuses to get her order right and seems to communicate exclusively in nods and grunts. Clarke’s pretty sure he thinks her name is Claire- judging from  _ her  _ cups- but the coffee is top-notch and she really can’t bring herself to care.

Still. She can’t help but feel a little curious as to what his name actually is.

He gets up for his customary refill at four, glasses askew on his face and hair sticking up in tufts. She’s never looked at him properly before- not without having to strain her neck, that is- so she takes the time to study him carefully now, taking in the smattering of freckles across his cheekbones, the expanse of sun-kissed skin peeking out from under the uneven hem of his shirt.

It’s a pretty impressive sight, she grudgingly admits, squirming a little when he meets her gaze steadily, brow arched. Shrugging, she jerks her head towards his cup, makes a show out of squinting at the messy scrawl, “Bryan, is it?”

That gets a snort out of him, fingers drumming out a beat against his cup. “Close, but no dice.”

“You’re right,” she nods, solemn. “You definitely look like more of a Boris.”

“I’ve been told that I have a face that brings the name to mind.” He remarks, dry, hand reaching up to knead at the back of his neck in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “What about you?”

She blinks, “What about me?”

He makes an impatient noise, a full-bodied shrug that nearly upends the contents of his cup on the floor. “I can’t keep calling you princess.”

“Oh,” She manages, setting her sketchbook down so she can focus her full attention on him. He’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, awkward, like he’s not sure how to interact with her outside of making snarky, passive-aggressive comments. “It’s uh, Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

“That’s a shame,” he sighs, taking a pointed sip of his coffee. “I had my money on Clarissa. Or something completely out of left field, like Chives.”

“It’s my middle name,” she chirps, without missing a beat. “I think I can make out a Y on your cup, so I’m guessing Bradbury.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Seven letters.”

“Okay, Barnaby then.” She goes, rolling a piece of charcoal between her fingers. He’s not all that much taller than her, but has to hunch over slightly to fit into the space when he drops back down onto his seat, legs pressed up between the wall and the table. The sight of it makes her feel strangely fond. “Come on, give me a hint here.”

“Well, you’re not going to find it on the baby book of names.” He mumbles, resuming his furious typing on his laptop. Normally she’d take it as a sign that it was the end of a conversation, but his headphones stay slung around his neck, his fingers beating out a restless rhythm against his trackpad instead. “My mom, uh. She liked the unconventional stuff, I guess.”

Clarke sets the charcoal back onto the page, absentmindedly smudging a sketch under the press of her wrist. “Bartholomew.”

“Eleven letters,” he reminds her, mild, and she wonders if she’s imagining the smile in his voice. “Good guess in terms of the obscurity level, though.”

It goes on like this for a while, occasionally interspersed with Miller’s grumbling about how he liked it better when it was  _ quieter  _ around here. She gets through an entire column of names that she looked up on her phone before he eventually concedes, reaching back and bumping her ankle against his to get her attention.

“It’s Bellamy,” he mutters, soft and a little exasperated, almost as if he was embarrassed to admit it. “You don’t see it around much, so. I didn’t think you would figure it out.”

“That’s definitely unconventional,” she agrees, leaning back against her chair. The brush of his shoulder blade against her back startles her at first, but she relaxes eventually, stays right where she is. “It’s a pretty name, though.”

Bellamy snorts, his form shaking ever so slightly. “You wouldn’t think so if you’ve heard the numerous ways it could be butchered. Trust me, I nearly went by my last name during my college years because the professors were always fucking it up.”

Clarke nods, then realising he can’t see her, adds, “Which is what?”

That gets a laugh out of him, a low, raspy sound that she feels all the way down to her toes.“Are you asking for the various ways my name can be butchered or for my last name? Because I trust you can figure the first one out on your own.”

It’s not like he can  _ see  _ her, but she still takes a huge bite of her lukewarm muffin to keep from smiling too wide anyway. “The latter.”

(As it turns out, it’s Blake, and he laughs again when she tells him that she likes alliteration. In all honesty, this is probably something she could get used to.)

+

He makes a face when she takes a big gulp of her green tea latte, savoring it. 

“I can feel your judgement from here,” she says, saccharine sweet, and he snaps his attention back on her, clearly startled. “I didn’t know you were a coffee snob. Though it’s not entirely unexpected.”

The strangled noise that leaves his throat would be funny if he didn’t actually look quite so offended. “That might possibly be the worst thing you have thought about me, Clarke.”

“Nah, I’ve probably thought worst.” Clarke tells him, innocent, rising from her slouch against the counter to grab her toasted bagel from Harper. “What do you have against green tea lattes anyway?”

“They’re green, for one.” Bellamy insists, stubborn. “And why would you put tea in coffee? Logically, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Ahh,” she says sagely, “so you’re one of those that drinks black coffee without sugar and hates anything remotely fun?”

He gives a frustrated huff, shoves his headphones back on roughly. “Maybe I just don’t  _ like  _ gimmicks, Griffin.”

She bites at the inside of her cheek, tapering a helpless smile. He was grumpy and impossible and downright  _ idiotic  _ at times, but she’s realizing that she doesn’t mind it all that much. “I know you can still hear me,” she teases.

The only response she gets is the frantic jabbing of the volume button, Bellamy’s gaze fixed obstinately on his screen.

“Come on,” she wheedles, kicking at the table stand lightly. “I’ll trade you. One sip of mine for whatever the hell it is that you’re drinking.”

Bellamy sighs, slides the headphones down against his neck, the motion ruffling his hair and making it stick up at the ends. The absence of music blaring from them makes her grin, just a little. “Fine, twist my arm.”

His cup smells sweet and familiar all at once- the furthest thing from black coffee- but it only hits her after she throws caution to the wind and chugs it down, nearly scalding her tongue in the process.

Sputtering, Clarke sets the cup down, eyes burning and tongue numb. “Fuck, I can’t believe you  _ like  _ vanilla lattes.”

“As opposed to this?” He gapes, thrusting her cup back at her. “It tastes like sewage water.”

“Give it back, then.” She grumbles, poking her tongue out childishly from between teeth.

Bellamy blinks, gaze darting over to the inklings of steam rising off her plate. “How about I trade it back for a bite of your bagel?”

They end up sharing it anyway, and if he notices her taking sneaky sips of his vanilla latte (it’s not  _ that  _ bad, after a while), he doesn’t say a word.

+

The arrival of finals week meant that the already crowded libraries were positively packed on the weekends, effectively derailing Clarke’s initial plan of holing up and cramming for her Latin final on Monday. She would have hunkered down in the laundry room if it came down to it, but Raven flat-out refused to work anywhere without cell reception. 

Which meant bringing her to the Dropship.

It’s  _ weird _ , and she can’t help but feel strangely protective over it, from the cracked vinyl chairs to the mismatched mugs and the grumpy patron one table down. It’s difficult to explain the appeal of it to someone else- though it’s not like she’d want to, anyway. The place was starting to feel like hers and Bellamy’s alone, something small and safe and cocooned from the rest of the world, and she liked it that way.

He actually looks up when he hears her approach, lips curling upwards briefly in what she assumes is a approximation of a smile. “And I thought I would normally have this place to myself on weekends.”

“Well,” she huffs, setting her books down with a thump. “I have a Latin final on Monday and the library is a no-go, so here I am.”

“With a friend too,” he adds, cocking his chin over at Raven loitering by the counter. “You should probably give her a hand. The new guy Jasper is on duty today, and he’s a mess.”

Knowing Raven, it’s highly doubtful that it’s going to pose a problem of any sort so Clarke just slides into the seat across from his instead, settles in. “I wouldn’t worry about it. What are you working on?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Bellamy goes, sardonic, slumping over in his seat and bumping his knee up against hers. “Just a dissertation that’s worth thirty percent of my grade.”

She smirks, tapping her nail against the messy sheaf of papers sprawled all over the table. “And I take it that you have everything under control?”

“Clearly.” He snarks, reaching over to shuffle them into a semblance of neatness. “Listen, if anyone ever tells you that majoring in classical studies is going to be a good idea, don’t believe them.”

“Nah, I’m leaning more towards art history.” Clarke says brightly, swirling the remains of his coffee with the leftover chopstick from his lunch. “So, you’re probably really good at Latin, huh?”

Bellamy frowns at that, brows furrowing together. “I mean, yeah but-- wait, Clarke,  _ no _ .”

She laughs at his drawn-out groan, confusion giving way to grim reluctance as Raven plops down beside her, practice worksheets still clutched between her fingers. “What did I miss?”

“This is Bellamy,” she goes, beaming. He’s positively sulky right now, hands crossed over his chest and shooting her dark looks whenever she looks over. “And he’s a classical studies major who’s going to tutor us while he takes a break from writing his dissertation. Right?”

To her credit, Raven looks thoroughly unimpressed by the sight of a scowling Bellamy, casting a dismissive glance over at the dogeared books, the sprawl of papers. “Yeah, well. I’m not so sure about that.”

“Says the person who apparently doesn’t get the concept of macrons.” He scoffs, making an exaggerated gesture towards the crumpled worksheets. “But please, be my guest. I really don’t give a shit.”

There’s a lengthy beat, punctuated by the squeal of the coffee machine before Raven caves, rolling her eyes and sliding the textbook over with so much force that it lands squarely on the ground.

Grinning, Clarke uncaps her pen, reaches over impulsively to tap a beat out against his knuckles. “Okay, Bellamy. Do your worst.”

It’s funny because he’s actually a good teacher. Granted, he’s definitely not the most patient one, but  _ still _ . It’s nice listening to him explaining the different Latin abbreviations and proverbs, the rough cadence of his voice surprisingly soothing. Even Raven grudgingly admits that he’s been helpful, though she remains adamant on the fact that she would have figured it out eventually anyway.

“You  _ like  _ him,” she hisses, accusatory, once Bellamy’s cleared off for work- which according to Jasper, is a common occurrence on the weekends, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Clarke. It’s rude and--”

“That’s--  _ no _ ,” Clarke yelps, only remembering to quieten down when Jasper shoots her a curious stare. It’s-- there’s a part of her that recognizes this for what it is: some stirring of feelings on her part- possibly the smallest of crushes- but she forces it down, deep into a space where it would remain untouched. She couldn’t help it; she had been wary about relationships after the last few disasters,  _ cautious _ . It was hard not to be cynical when every single one of her relationships had imploded in her face. “We’re just friends.”

“Hmm,” Raven mutters, arching a brow at her. “Normally I wouldn’t believe you, but I don’t know. He’s not your usual type.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose at her, “I have a type?”

“Oh, definitely.” She goes, taking a smug, pointed sip of her tea. “Look at Finn. Look at  _ Lexa _ . They both have that thing going on for them, you know? The whole saving-the-world, idealistic bullshit that makes them think that they’re better than everyone else. Bellamy-- he’s doesn’t seem like them.”

She would argue, but there was some truth to that statement. Clarke had always liked this side of them; Finn’s stubborn belief in the good of the world, how he chose to believe that he could change things with nothing but the strength of his convictions and faith. Lexa’s iron-will and steely-eyed dedication, her determination to rip everything out from its roots and replant something new in place, something  _ better.  _ And maybe that was why none of those relationships had worked out either, because Finn had wanted to rescue her when she didn’t need saving, and Lexa wanted to change her because Clarke never measured up to her standards.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she admits, soft, twisting the remains of her straw wrapper around her finger, knotting it tight.

“No,” Raven tells her, pulling forward to take her palm, squeezing. “No, it’s not.”

+

The thing is, it’s already an awful morning. 

Her alarm doesn’t go off, so she misses her (only!) class of the day, and her rushing out means forgetting to grab an umbrella, which  _ also  _ means getting caught in the rain while on the way to the Dropship. She’s soaked all the way down to her socks, cold and fucking miserable, and--

She stops short at the sight of the polished table top, chair still tucked in carefully.

Her first thought is, strangely,  _ for someone who doesn’t have a proper filing system, the guy sure is persnickety,  _ followed by a more-panicked,  _ maybe he fell into a ditch, somewhere?  _ Swallowing, Clarke sets her bag down, wrapping her ankle against the leg of the chair and pulling it backwards. As far as she knows, most of the staff never really bothered with table or chair placement before, preferring to dust or sweep around them. This has Bellamy written all over it.

It’s difficult to try and lose herself in her sketching when she jumps every time she hears something in the direction of the door, but it’s not like Clarke doesn’t  _ try.  _ She powers through for about thirty minutes before she gives in and approaches the counter instead, orders her go-to drink and pastry.

“So,” she asks, jerking her thumb back at her occupied table, deceptively nonchalant _. _ “What happened to that guy?”

The girl- her name tag says Monroe, though it’s hard to tell considering the sloppy scrawl- looks a tad confused at that, but just as Clarke’s about to wave the question off, she brightens. “Oh, you mean Miller’s roommate?”

“Uh, I-- I guess? Grouchy, about yay high? Always sits by the power outlet?”

“Right,” she nods, dropping her change into her open palm. “I’m not sure, but Miller will be here for his shift in about an hour or so? You can ask him then.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, trying to keep from sounding too resigned. “Thanks for your help.”

It’s easier to get back into the swing of sketching once she slides her headphones on, and she actually manages to get some work done, even with the whole Bellamy situation niggling at the back of her mind. 

The disruption in routine that what really gets to her, she reasons, slashing through a few of her not-so-satisfactory sketches. It’s not her fault that she actually  _ likes  _ routine, and if you really get down to it, this is all Bellamy’s fault for--

She drops her nub of charcoal back onto the table at the sound of the bell going over the door, already scrambling to unplug her headphones when Miller breezes in, Monty in tow,  both of them laughing softly over something she can’t make out.

“Hey,” she calls out, “listen, Miller, I--”

“Bellamy’s sick.” He interrupts, yanking his jacket off roughly. “He’s down with the flu and his sister has him on bed rest.”

“Oh,” Clarke breathes, mentally adding that small factoid into the list of things she apparently did not know about Bellamy Blake. “That makes sense.”

Then, before she can chicken out, “So he won’t be back tomorrow either?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Miller grumbles, exasperatedly scrubbing his hand over his face. “Monty has his number. He’ll give it to you.”

“It’s fine,” she backtracks, throwing Monty a pointed glare when he wiggles his eyebrows at her. “I’ll just-- see him when I see him, I guess.”

“I could pass a message along,” Monty goes, teasing, dropping into the seat across hers when she ducks her head down, pretending to be absorbed in her work. “I’m going by their apartment later for video games with Nate.”

_ Nate?  _ Clarke mouths, jiggling her fingers against his elbow excitedly.

_ Shut up _ , he mouths back, grinning, flush working its way up against his cheeks.

She shakes her head at that, amused, before reaching over to roll the piece of charcoal between her fingers nimbly. “You know what? Just tell Bellamy that I hope he feels better soon.”

But as it turns out, he’s back the very next day- a little worse for wear and sporting a fresh bruise by his cheek- but she takes it as a good sign that he’s still aggressively typing away on his laptop, looking vaguely nonplussed.

“Miller said it was a cold,” she says as a way of greeting, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the tip of his nose rubbed raw. “Did someone punch you in the face for sneezing on them?”

“That would have made for a cool story,” he laughs, hoarse. It’s unfair that he still looks good even like this, she thinks, all rumpled hair and glasses with the sleeves of his sweater pushed up and over his forearms. “Nah, uhm. I passed out and hit the ground pretty hard. Figured that something was wrong after that.”

“It took you passing out to realise that?” She grins, hitching her bag strap higher against her shoulder. “Should I be worried about your immune system?”

Something softens imperceptibly in his eyes at that, until he’s looking at her with something akin to fondness. “Yeah, well. I got your message from Monty.”

Her cheeks go hot, suddenly and stupidly shy. It’s not something she’s ever felt in regard to Bellamy- or towards many people, in general- the feeling jarring and unfamiliar against her chest, like having to relearn gravity after almost an entire summer spent floating on water.

Clarke forces a wobbly smile, side-stepping past him towards her table. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, at least.”

She takes a step forward, but his hand reaches out to catch her wrist gently before she can go any further, holding her in place. His palm is comically large compared to hers, something she would ordinarily have found funny if her pulse wasn’t thundering so loud in her ears.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says quickly, drawing away. “It’s just-- do you want to sit here, instead? There’s room.”

Incredulous, she glances over at the the table. It’s completely clear except for a small pile of books sequestered to the side of his laptop, mug resting precariously close to the edge as his knees jog furiously under the table, restless. It’s a far cry from the mess from before, and  biting back a smile, she does exactly that, snapping her sketchbook open with a flourish.

“Figured that you didn’t need that much books?” She asks, innocent.

He grunts, ducking his head before eking out, “The e-copies are just as good anyway.”

+

Bellamy only notices two weeks into their new arrangement. 

“Are you drawing me?” He asks, freezing in place over his stacks of papers, words muffled through the pen clenched in between his teeth.

She shrugs, keeps her fingers tightly clamped across the length of charcoal, already going through the familiar motions of mapping out his profile, the sharp, narrow planes of his face contrasting wildly with the unruly curls. “Maybe,” Clarke hedges, fluttering back again to capture the muscle twitching against his jaw, “does it bother you?”

“No,” he goes, popping the pen out of his mouth with an exaggeratedly slow movement. “But, you’ve never let me see them.”

“They’re not that great,” she hastens to add, a surge of guilt rising up her throat at the plain confusion evident on his face. “But yeah, I should have told you that I was. I’m sorry about that.”

He cocks his head over at her, teasing. “Oh, come on. Like I would have said no.”

“You could have,” she mutters, turning the filled page over carefully.

It was difficult to explain the appeal behind drawing Bellamy- it wasn’t that he was particularly handsome or striking, though she would admit that he was both- but it had more to do with how he was a study in contrasts. There was a kind of softness in his eyes that belied the tense set of his mouth, confidence warring with doubt at every move he made. He wore his emotions; his intentions, right out in the open that made for sketches that sprang off the page, made it impossible to look away.

(She liked to draw him in greys too, a combination of shadow and light. She liked that he existed in that small space in between both; dark and light, light and dark.)

“You could always make it up to me,” Bellamy says, easy, and at her arched brow, reaches over to pluck the dangling charcoal from her fingers.

She groans, slumps back in her chair. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

All she gets is an imperious wiggle of his fingers until she rips a blank page out for him, settling back into her seat with a scowl. Clarke wasn’t used to being the subject of attention, the one  _ on  _ the paper instead of behind it, and her skin burned at every place his gaze landed.

“God,” Bellamy laughs, pushing down hard against the paper. “You’re a terrible model.”

“You aren’t the most cooperative either.” She gripes, shoving a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “But I had to make do, so. Suck it up.”

“Patience,” he chides, eyes skimming the curve of her mouth, lingering. The intensity behind it steals her breath, and she counts the seconds between the rise and fall of his chest before she looks up, daring herself to meet his eyes.

He’s staring right back, unwavering and inscrutable except for the crack in his voice when he tells her, “Perfection takes  _ time,  _ Clarke. Give it a rest.”

It takes him almost half an hour for him to present it to her, with her hair being a wild tangle of lines, limbs bearing a stick-figure like quality, but most important of all, his phone number, scrawled across the edge of the page.

+

He texted like how he talked; abrupt,  _ gruff _ . Dry, too. If Clarke didn’t know any better, it would have come off as hostile, even when he was talking about mundane matters like how his day went. It made her smile stupidly into her chest, imagining him tapping away at his keyboard with his too-big hands, the barely concealed flash of impatience that would cross his face at every misspelled word. It was hilarious and endearing all at once, occurring at a regular enough rate that Wells had begin to notice and started teasing her about it. 

_ You text like a 70 year old yelling at children to get off his lawn _ , she tells him.

His response is a plaintive,  _ well, tell me how to improve then. _

_ A few smiley faces wouldn’t hurt. _

_ :) _

“I’ve seen more of the top of your head than your actual face for the duration of this conversation,” Wells muses, pleasant.

Wincing, she tucks the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “Sorry. Last time, I swear.”

He waves her off, pinches a fry off her plate. “It’s fine. Though I am curious as to when I can actually meet this mysterious coffeeshop guy.”

“Around the time you admit you have a big fat crush on Raven,” she challenges, swiping a stray piece of bacon off his plate.

“I have a humongous crush on Raven,” Wells goes, straight-faced, “and I’m waiting for the right time to ask her out. Preferably when I’ve graduated and am back in the city.”

She shoots him a dirty look, “You said that just to spite me, didn’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t make this two-hour drive just so you could beat around the bush about your love life the entire time.” He reminds her, grinning. “Invite him to hang out with us tonight.”

“ _ No  _ fucking way, Wells.”

“We could have a party,” he adds, brightening. “Lighten up, Clarke. It’ll be a group thing, so there’ll be no pressure. You’ll get to hang out with him outside of the Dropship, and I’ll get to hang out with Raven. It’s a win-win.”

“You don’t even like parties,” she mutters, hating the petulant edge to her voice.

He shrugs, picking up his fork to poke at the leftover eggs on her plate. “I like intimate gatherings with close friends. And your possible boyfriend, whoever he is.”

“Sometimes, the lengths that you will go to astound me,” she remarks, dry. “Fine. You’ll have to be the one to convince Raven though.”

“Not going to be an issue.” He goes, smug, and she makes sure to kick him hard at the ankles before sliding back to retrieve her phone.

_ Free tonight? _

+

Raven’s idea of a party mostly involves pushing the couch in front of their TV and setting out a few beers, which wouldn’t be  _ terrible  _ if they were just inviting a few people from their dorm, but. 

It’s  _ Bellamy _ , and Clarke really, really wants it to be perfect.

Growling, she smacks the dingy, dust-covered Xbox, hard, hoping to will it to life. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I don’t know,” Raven sighs, plopping down onto the couch and sinking into the warmth of the strewn cushions. “Considering it hasn’t worked properly for the past year or so, I have to say that I can believe that this is happening.”

She glares, blows a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re not exactly helping.”

“Because you’re being ridiculous,” Raven groans, exasperated. “He’s not going to care that our Xbox isn’t working, he’ll be too busy  _ mooning _ over you.”

“They,” she says, terse. “He’s bringing Octavia, and Monty and Miller--”

“Who will all be charmed and entertained by me,” Raven cuts in, bored. “Clarke, relax. Wells is going to be here any minute with the pizzas, plus I have the speakers set up and we have netflix. What’s not to like?”

Resisting the urge to scrub at her face, she settles for dropping her forehead down to Raven’s shoulder instead. “I know I’m being a control freak about this.”

“Just a little,” she says, fond, reaching over to pat her hair lightly. “I really don’t think you should worry, though. I’ve barely met the guy and I know he’s crazy about you.”

“I want him to have fun.” She mumbles, butting her head against her collarbone for emphasis. “Probably because I have the biggest, stupidest of crushes on him.”

A beat goes by. She can practically feel Raven’s frame sagging from their combined weight, and she eases up, rocking back on the balls of her feet.

“Alright,” Raven grumbles, dropping into a crouch and scooping up the remains of the Xbox. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Clarke beams, has to go up on her tiptoes to deliver a smacking kiss on her cheek, “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Not nearly enough.” Raven says, rolling her eyes before reaching over to tug down on her tanktop. “Trust me,” she goes, swanning away before Clarke can argue, “Bellamy will be appreciative.” 

Monty’s the first to arrive, and he insists on playing DJ despite the dorm’s apparent no-noise-after-ten policy. The music he picks is upbeat but nothing too intense or particularly  _ loud,  _ thankfully, so they go by undetected even after Miller comes by with Harper and Monroe, who all insist on super smash bros and refusing to be quiet about it despite Wells’s constant reminders. It’s boisterous and chaotic and pretty fun, all in all, the alcohol and atmosphere easing her nerves when Bellamy finally emerges, dragging his sister behind him.

“Shit, Clarke, I’m so sorry.” He starts, rueful. “I had to wait up for Octavia, and she took forever to get ready--”

“Says the person who spent twenty minutes on his hair alone,” the girl cuts in, shouldering past him to stick her hand out in her vague direction. Her handshake is firm, her gaze assessing. “I’m Octavia. My brother won’t shut up about you, so I guess I know more about you than you do about me.”

She shrugs, sneaks a peek over at him. His ears are tinged red, shoulders hunched, and  _ yeah _ , she’s so gone for this guy it isn’t even funny anymore. “Trust me, I’ve heard a lot about you too. You guys want a beer? We have uh, pizza and--”

“Pepperoni,” Octavia nods, lurching towards the other side of the room without a backwards glance, putting Miller into a headlock as she passes.

“Is this normal around here?” She asks, watching as Miller flails about, nearly taking out Octavia’s eye with a well-placed thrust of his controller. They had a kind of easy, natural camaraderie about them that made something twinge in her chest, a kind of loneliness that had stemmed from being an only child with hardly any other friends her own age.

“More than you think,” Bellamy snorts, expression softening ever so slightly when he turns to look at her fully. “Anyway, uh. Hi. I’m not sure if I said it yet.”

“You didn’t,” Clarke grins, “but I don’t care. I’m more hung up on the fact that you apparently spent twenty minutes on your hair.”

“Five,” he adds hastily, unconsciously reaching up to ruck it between his fingers. “Ten, tops.”

“Debatable.” She teases, and before she can overthink it, weaves her fingers through his. “Come on, let’s get you that beer.”

There’s barely any space left on the couch when they get there, so she has to half-perch in his lap all while juggling a controller in her hand. It’s hard to care though, especially when his hand is a warm weight over her hip, holding her in place so she wouldn’t slip off. She brushes up against him once more, deliberate, and his responding shiver makes her want to twist her fingers into his curls and kiss him, hard.

It still surprises her, sometimes, that she could  _ want  _ something so badly. It wasn’t about possession or staking a claim; didn’t rage and scorch and rip her apart like all her other relationships did. It was quiet and careful and  _ good,  _ the first hint of leaves after months of cold and slush and snow. It burned at her- a low, even hum that held steady, tasted like hope against the roof of her tongue. Bellamy had showed her that there was still some things that were good out there- that could be hopeful- if she only dared to reach out and take them.

“Last few rounds,” he tells her, squeezing her hip gently, snapping her out of her reverie. “Keep this up and I’m pretty sure I’ll have you beat.”

Clarke leans in, presses a kiss against his cheek instead, dangerously close to his mouth. His stubble scrapes her chin, leaves a trail down her jaw. “Keep telling yourself that,” she says, sweet, turns away before she can catch a glimpse of his expression.

She beats him, ten-nilch. It’s pretty satisfying.

+

It takes her a little while longer to leave her dorm the next day, mostly because Clarke’s _exhausted_ from the events of last night but also because the plummeting temperatures meant uncovering her winter clothes and bundling up before heading out to the dropship. 

There’s also the matter of the vague, slightly ominous text she gets from Bellamy, a curt,  _ need to talk _ , which, well. She’s trying not to dwell on.

He’s already waiting when she gets there, hovering by the door and pacing, nose red from the cold. She’s almost tempted to tease him about it if he didn’t look quite so anxious, fiddling with the ends of his scarf and muttering under his breath.

“Hey,” she says, soft, closing the distance between them. “What’s up?”

He jolts at the sound of her voice, grabs onto her elbow to regain his balance. “Shit, sorry. I, uh. Didn’t hear you coming up.”

“It’s fine,” she laughs, resting her hand over his. “Someone’s awfully jumpy today.”

“Shut up,” he goes, without heat, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the heat of his palm searing through her jacket. “I have to ask you something.”

She peers up at him from between her lashes, waits. A beat passes, then two, his breath growing ragged, nose bumping up against hers, and Clarke’s not sure if she’s trembling from the proximity or the cold at this point.  _ If he doesn’t do something already, _ she thinks, swallowing,  _ I’m going to fucking lose my mind. _

He laughs at the impatient noise she makes, presses closer together. “I’m not overthinking this, right? It’s not some one-sided thing on my part and you, you--”

“I  _ like  _ you,” she says hotly, staggering forward and brushing her lips against his. “And I’ve wanted to tell you--”

This time, he’s the one that surges forward, seals his mouth over hers. It’s open-mouthed, sloppy, fingers tracing the arc of her cheekbone and delving into her hair. She whimpers at the slide of his tongue, instinctively reaches forward to grasp wildly at his jacket, bunching the fabric up in her fists and pulling him closer.

She faintly recognizes the thump of something being thrown against the window of the dropship, followed by the piercing whistle. He laughs into her mouth, doubles his efforts until someone finally hollers at them to  _ get a room _ and they pull apart, breathing heavily. His lashes are flecked with flurries of snow, grin wide and slow and sure and she can’t help but pitch forward again to press a chaste kiss on his lips.

“I’m going to kill Miller.” He declares, voice hoarse from the cold before dropping his forehead down to rest against hers.

“It’s probably his way of telling us that we’ll get hypothermia if we stay out here any longer,” she says instead, giggling at the involuntary rattling of her teeth, a chill rushing down her spine before it’s replaced by Bellamy’s warmth, his hands rubbing into her skin gently.

“Sorry,” he says, regretful. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She links her fingers around his neck, buries her chin into the jut of his shoulder to hide her smile. “You could always buy me a cup of coffee."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me on [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)about 3x11 BECAUSE I HAVE A LOT OF EMOTIONS ABOUT THAT GOSH-DARN EPISODE


End file.
